


Five Times Beverly Katz Took a Lady for a Bike Ride, and One Time She Took Will Graham

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, because beverly katz on a motorcycle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beverly Katz is a considerate motorist who always pulls over at the first sign of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Beverly Katz Took a Lady for a Bike Ride, and One Time She Took Will Graham

Three miles out from D.C., on the battered shoulder and to the right of the 12th Street exit, rests the rigid outline of a powder-blue Bentley, its driver a study in frustration and red curls, and Beverly Katz is a considerate motorist who always pulls over at the first sign of trouble.

The Racer grinds to a stop over a patch of autumn leaves ten yards or so behind the car, and yeah, she’s dangerous, even behind window glass, her mouth a slash of crimson as the window slides down with a smooth electric sigh. “Car trouble?” asks Bev, like it’s the beginning of a bad porno, but maybe that’s her goal.

“Apparently I should check the engine,” comes the answer, and there’s something too smooth under it, silk stained with spots of oil; she brushes a sprig of hair behind her ear, her green-gloved right hand tapping indulgently on the wheel, behind which flashes the warning light in question.

Bev drops her elbows onto the window ledge, leather jacket clinging to her back in the late September sun. She leans into the body of the car—urbane elegance, dashboard of seamless dials and the expansive scent of a clean factory floor—and runs her eyes over the black velvet cape, leopard print skirt, that sly tilt of head. “When was the last time you brought her in?”

“A May inspection," she says, sliding her fingers across the dashboard, and she’s looking right at her now, face still and soft and expectant, “why are you here?”

Bev chuckles, shifts her weight, doesn’t think about the backlog of analyses waiting for her at the lab. “Here?”

Freddie Lounds is perfectly serious. “Why did you pull over?”

“You looked like you might need help.”

Lounds’ smile is contained, with docile aspirations. “And Graham?”

Beverly sighs. "Don't ."

The symphony of rush hour traffic beside them slows to andante. Freddie's laugh is light and reedy, and more than a little incredulous. "You're kidding."

A pinprick of irritation jabs at Beverly's stomach, and she smiles. "This is so convenient for you, isn’t it?"

Freddie wriggles her shoulders into a distant cousin of a shrug. "You seemed like you enjoyed yourself; I don't know why you want to try and spoil it."

Bev is Not Falling For It, not this time, and so she says, "Got a voltmeter?"

The raised eyebrow she gets in response indicates that no, she doesn't. Freddie palms a gold lighter and a pack of Marlboros out of her leopard-spotted clutch and lights up like it's a crushing inconvenience. "Part of the healthy vegetarian diet?”

Lounds exhales a silken current of smoke. "Thought you were checking the car."

“Go ahead and pop the hood.”

There’s a snap of smile as Freddie’s index finger brushes the dashboard switch, and Bev takes a few seconds to fold this picture into the back of her mind, clips it as the hood is released with a hydraulic-assisted click. She circles around to the front of the car and presses the raised center of the emblem; the hood comes fully away and the sleek majesty of a Bentley engine is laid out for her in aluminum and steel. Freddie watches her from the driver’s seat. “Aren’t you coming out?”

She pokes her head out the window and the wind pours through her hair. “I don’t want to intrude on your moment.”

Beverley elects to ignore this comment and gives the car a commiserating pat before stepping back to her bike and its pannier. “Let’s check your oxygen sensor.”

Freddie taps her cigarette against the ledge of the open window, scattering ash onto the pavement. “Maybe we could get room service this time.”

The voltmeter is at the bottom of her bag, of course. Bev shifts everything around until it’s almost completely overturned and then it’s flush against her fingertips. “I can just leave, you know,” she says, pulling it free, “I need to be at work.”

The device sits squat and yellow in the palm of her hand and she can feel Freddie’s frown from here. “You should really think about getting one of these.”

Bev busies herself under the hood, connecting the positive lead to the sensor output wire. She doesn’t hear the car door click open, doesn’t notice until Freddie’s standing right next to her, arms folded and looking cross. “I’m sorry you see my job as a problem.”

The laugh that leaps from her own throat shouldn’t surprise Beverley, but she still feels a surge of unsettlement at the bottom of her spine. 

Once the negative lead is connected to the engine block, she shoos Freddie back into the driver’s seat to rev the engine, and they wait for it to warm up, sharing the center of the silence. “Steady low,” Bev says, upon checking the results.

Freddie shakes her head, auburn curls trailing the lines of her face. “I need to run it again to be sure,” explains Bev, “but it looks like there’s a problem with at least one of your oxygen sensors.”

Freddie pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “You can’t fix it?”

Bev chuckles. “If I could fix it, you wouldn’t be in this situation. Would’ve fixed it months ago if I’d known.”

They stand outside the car and wait for the tow-truck to arrive, and the breeze cards through Freddie’s hair like she’s a born model, and Bev reaches over and tucks it behind her ear before she can think twice.

She’s not expecting the little hitch of breath she hears. “Don’t say a fucking word,” she warns, and she leans over.

The kiss is quick and public—they’re on the side of a highway—and Freddie’s gripping the edges of her leather jacket like she’s going to float away. “I didn’t have to,” Freddie murmurs, and before Beverly can ask what the hell that was about the trucks are here and the beautiful Bentley is rolling down the interstate.

By the time she's got a carefully tactless tabloid reporter behind her on the bike and two deceptively strong arms around her waist, she's wondering if maybe Freddie hadn't planned the whole thing out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tumblr user [borgevino](http://borgevino.tumblr.com) for help with bike terminology and appearance, and for the headcanon that Bev rides a [Honda cx500 Cafe Racer](http://borgevino.tumblr.com/post/49991449940/honda-cx500-cafe-racer).


End file.
